


Abnegation

by drifting_manatee



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (2014), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Early Peter/Gamora if you squint, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, I Am Groot, Minor Violence, Peter Feels, Profanities Galore, Rocket likes swears, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-12 18:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2120592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drifting_manatee/pseuds/drifting_manatee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abnegation: self-sacrifice, selflessness- acting with less concern for yourself than for the success of the joint activity. </p>
<p>Or: Meredith Quill had always told her son that he would amount to great things, and now with his bunch of a-holes he finally has the chance to do so. </p>
<p>Takes place post-movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fanfic on any website so it's a little daunting to be honest. I know the summary sucked but I was stuck for ideas about what to say.
> 
> This film just caused a lot of emotions that I decided to cope with by writing a very long one-shot. Seriously, i didn't mean for it to be this long at all. 
> 
> Obviously I don't own Guardians of the Galaxy (unfortunately), nor any characters within the Marvel universe. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

Peter Jason Quill generally had no qualms with how others perceived him. As far as he was concerned, approximately 94.5% of the 'sentient' inhabitants of this galaxy (94.25% if he was feeling generous) were morons. Morons who tiresomely went along with their moronic routines every single day of their little moronic lives. Morons who were far too idle to have the sense to keep a constant eye on their possessions and units. Really, Peter was doing them a favour when he promptly whipped his hand into their pockets and relieved them of any valuable personal effects that didn't deserve to be in their possession. If he didn't steal them, someone who was a lot bigger, a lot uglier and a lot nastier than he was would do it anyway. He liked to think that he was a reasonably decent guy: a reasonably decent guy stricken with kleptomania, granted, but a decent guy nonetheless.

One thing that Peter had never even attempted to deny was that he was a selfish person. Everything he had ever done since being abducted by Captain Mohawk (or 'Yondu', as he preferred) and his hilarious posse of asinine space pirates had been driven by selfishness. His profession, if you could call it that, literally just involved taking things that he wanted (what could he say, he was impulsive like that). Double-crossing others was second nature to him. So when Bereet had stormed furiously from his ship following their late-night tryst, screaming that he was 'the most egotistical and repulsive piece of shit that she'd ever met', he tried to not think too much of it. He'd spent 26 years of his life navigating this weird and wonderful galaxy (emphasis on 'weird') with a whole ship-load of egotistical and repulsive pieces of shit, so really it was unsurprising that he obtained some of their undesirable qualities over time.

Every now and then when he would be going about his business (drinking himself into a haze of bad decisions, scoring with females of unknown alien species, pilfering valuables etc.) he would find himself picturing his mother, and what she would make of the direction his life had taken. Although his memories of his life on Earth were a little hazy, he never forgot a single detail about his mother. All he had left of her was his mixtape and his memories, and he would be damned to hell if he lost either. He would picture the look of disappointment- not anger, never anger, but disappointment- crossing her face and his heart would sink to the pit of his stomach.

"You're a good person, Peter," she used to whisper to him every night before he went to sleep, "You're my precious little Star-Lord and you're going to amount to such great things."

Great things? The possibility of him amounting to great things was blown out of the water when his mother's heart was stopped by _stupid fucking cancer_ and he was torn from his world by a gang of psychotic space pirates who went out of their way to express their desire to eat his flesh. So instead he drank and he stole and he slept around, spurred on by the knowledge that amounting to great things was not on the cards for him. He was a mercenary, for god's sake. Mercenaries don't amount to great things, they amount to being assholes-for-hire. Granted, he was an asshole-for-hire in space, but really that was just another 'hilarious' way in which the universe had screwed him over. He wandered the galaxy aimlessly, knowing deep down that being a good person simply wasn't possible for him any more. There was no reason for him to be selfless when the last person he truly cared about died in a hospital bed in Missouri 26 years ago.

* * *

Then he stole that goddamned orb and everything he had known for the majority of his life was turned in on itself.

Suddenly he was faced with an all too real threat of the galaxy being obliterated by some crazed Kree maniac with a penchant for giant stone hammers and face paint. For some inexplicable reason he, Peter Jason Quill (asshole-for-hire in space), was catapulted head first into the insane new responsibility of protecting the galaxy and saving billions upon billions of lives. He risked his life for these billions upon billions of strangers that he'd never even met. Strangest of all, he wasn't alone. _He wasn't alone._

Suddenly, he was surrounded by a group of misfits who had been as royally screwed over by the universe as he had. A lethal (and green) genetically enhanced ultra-assassin who could probably castrate a man with her pinky finger alone, a gargantuan revenge-obsessed maniac who couldn't recognise a metaphor if it slapped him silly across his face, a snarky sort-of-raccoon who seemingly had a fetish for a explosions and had an impressive vocabulary of profanities that astonished even Peter, and a tree. With arms and legs. Whose vocabulary consisted entirely of the words 'I', 'am' and 'Groot'. Most bizarrely of all, this bunch of assholes had grouped together, raised a big fat middle finger to the universe for screwing them over time and time again and had topped it all off by saving the entire galaxy. Hell, they'd probably saved every single fucking galaxy out there. They'd waded into battle fully knowing the possibility that their actions could directly result in horrific deaths, but they had pulled it all off. They'd literally smited the as-before-mentioned Kree hammer fetishist using the raw power of a cosmic stone of destruction- the very power that would have ripped Peter apart atom by atom, unmade every fibre of his being, had his new asshole companions not risked the same fate and shared the burden of the infinity stone amongst themselves.

So now Peter was heralded as a hero by all of Xandar, and he and his new asshole buddies were charged by the Nova Corps with protecting the galaxy from any future threats. All of a sudden, he was one of the good guys. He, Gamora, Drax, Rocket and Groot were the Guardians of the Galaxy and it felt freaking awesome. And for the first time in 26 years, Peter had people that he truly cared about. People he could sacrifice himself for. His bunch of assholes, off saving worlds. __

* * *

Whatever Peter had anticipated about this whole 'saving the galaxy from dickheads with a death wish' shindig, it wasn't that it would all go so downhill so soon. Earlier that day, the _Milano_ had received a hologram message from Nova Prime whilst Peter had been screeching at Rocket to  _putthosefuckinggrenadesbackinthatboxhaveyoulostyourfreakingmind,_ informing them of a renegade faction of Thanos-worshipping brutes that had recently upped sticks and taken up residence on Deo. According to their sources, the thugs in question had gotten their dirty mitts on a piece of Nova Corps technology that could trigger massive seismic waves beneath the crust of a planet, causing horrific devastation and, inevitably, billions of deaths. These turds saw the Deonists- a mostly peaceful and benign race- as 'inferior', and so desired to appease Thanos by wiping them all out. 

"Our sources have reliably informed us that the faction plan on setting off the device in 6 hours time," hologram-Nova Prime stated gravely, "Your task is to secure the device and return it to the Nova Corps- by any means necessary."

"What, so can we kill 'em?" Rocket piped up, his attention diverted away from tinkering with the explosive in his paws (much to Peter's relief). 

" _Not unless it's vitally necessary,"_ Nova Prime stressed, "Ideally, we'll want them arrested and incarcerated in the Kyln for their crimes. I shall be sending the coordinates of Deo to your ship any second now. Good luck." And without another word the connection cut off, leaving an extremely disgruntled Rocket to mutter darkly along the lines of 'fucking hard-assed killjoy' whilst Groot- now around two thirds of his original size and no longer confined to his pot- seemingly showed his approval of the mission by disclosing his sentiment of 'I am Groot' to his team mates. 

 All in all, it had seemed like as ordinary a mission that you'll get when your job literally is to prevent psychopaths from ripping a hole in the galaxy every single day. They had landed on Deo, diverted Drax's attention from the tantalising opportunity of a bar ("But my friends, surely one drink would not cause much cognitive impairment?") and endured Rocket's endless promises of "I'm going to blow so many new holes in their bodies that they won't know where to shit from"- before warning him that they were  _not_ to kill these criminals, however idiotic and pug ugly they were, unless they had no other choice. They set a plan of action in motion (storm the base, cut the power, grab the weapons, beat the shit out of some morons and waltz out again), and went along their merry way to go kick some bad guy's teeth in. 

 What they didn't expect was they would be so hopelessly and hilariously outnumbered. Or that these guys would be so freaking  _huge._ And pissed.

 So by some twist of fate, the man known to a handful of individuals as Star-Lord was being coerced by the frequent laser blasts of some dangerously aggressive goons into seeking refuge behind a hunk of stone. His back pressed against the callous rock surface, he speedily plucked an electric pulse grenade and lobbed it in the general direction of their assailants, gladdened when he heard the familiar roar of a pulse of pure electrical energy tearing through the air and the anguished yelp of a 6-foot-8 zealot whose idea of fun was committing genocide.  _  
_

 "Jerks," he muttered bitterly, digging into his filthy pockets for other projectiles to hurl in the direction of their attackers. Why in the name of sweet baby Jesus did these fucktards just  _happen_ to be blessed with a ludicrously tall stature, be built like brick shithouses and be absolute imbeciles? Once again, it looked like the universe had decided Peter Quill was having it too easy and so decided to throw a couple of metaphorical spanners in the works. 

 He felt a rush of air beside him, and turned his head to his left to see a rather battered looking Gamora crouching beside him, a deep laceration on her right cheek oozing a dark emerald  fluid that Peter presumed was blood. 

 "I think they like us," he shouted over the deafening sounds of the guttural roars of their enemies, the volleys of laser bullets colliding with rock and Rocket's screeches of "BLAM! Murdered you!"

 "That dude scares me," Peter declared, unable to tear his eyes from the sight of the raccoon-thing launching a laser pulse into the face of a particularly ungodly looking thug. Gamora gave a slight smirk in response, unsheathing a particularly wicked looking pair of blades from her belt.

 "He mentioned something about wanting a battle cry earlier," she said candidly, giving her choice weapons a rapid sharpening on the rock that separated the pair of them from the ongoing conflict. 

 "There's a surprise." A burst of energy gouged a corner of the stone shielding them, missing Peter's left ear by inches. 

 His blasters re-energised and his helmet reassembled, Peter glanced to Gamora who in turn gave him a curt nod that could only mean one thing. 

  _Let's take these suckers out._

With a roar, Peter darted out from behind his hiding place and stunned three goons with his twin blasters in succession in just under 5 seconds. 

  _No way I'm telling Rocket that I just did a battle cry,_ he thought to himself as he swiftly dispatched a twitching thug on the floor with a well-placed kick to the face. He then heard a familiar surging sound from behind him and dropped violently to the filthy ground just as a globule of crackling electricity sliced through the air where his head had been a millisecond previously. 

 "Missed!" he called breathlessly, firing a forceful blast behind him which resulted in an agonised howl from his attacker as his kneecap shattered.

 "Drax!" he yelled at his hulking mass of a teammate, who was currently in the process of grievously pummelling some poor bastard with his bare fists, "Get the device!"  

 "I will do my utmost!" the towering man bellowed in response, grasping his quivering victim by the ankles and hurling him with a resounding ' _thunk_ ' into a nearby boulder. 

 "BLAM! Murdered you!" 

 "For the love of god, Rocket, stop killing every bastard you see!" Peter shouted in exasperation as he swerved to avoid a punch thrown by a rather colossal individual with a face like a mutilated gorilla's. 

 "No can do, Quill," Rocket cackled, "I see 'em, I blast 'em. It's my philosophy." Peter opened his mouth to voice his complaints when he witnessed a tremendous fiery explosion envelop an area a couple of metres before him and felt a hot burst of pain rip through his left shoulder. 

  _Shrapnel,_ his mind supplied for him, hissing as he grasped the fresh wound in his shoulder. A steady trickle of blood was already seeping from the puncture. 

 "Peter, you're hurt!" Gamora called worriedly from behind him as she relieved one of the last standing Thanos enthusiasts of his right arm with a clean slice of her blade. 

 "No time to worry about it now!" Peter shouted in response, grimacing as the movement needed to blast some ugly sucker in the back pulled on his injury.  _Not too much damage, should heal in no time if it isn't strained._

"I have it!" Drax's voice yelled triumphantly, "I have the device!" Sure enough, Drax had a relatively puny looking black box clutched under his arm as he landed a heavy kick into the temple of some poor (but fugly) soul. Peter felt a grin slide across his face, despite the sting in his shoulder. 

  _The motherfuckin' Guardians of the Galaxy have done it again, bitch._

"Alright, that's all folks! Time to get the fuck out of here and call the Nova Corps for clean-up," Peter ordered, feeling satisfied as he gazed upon the dozens of unconscious bodies that littered the surrounding area.

 "I am Groot," the eponymous tree-thing added happily. Peter pretended to overlook the thick curtain of blood that caked the bark on Groot's gleeful face.  _They don't say we're lunatics for nothing._

"That one's twitching," Rocket said, "Can I shoot him?" 

 "Well aren't you a little bundle of joy."

 "Is that a yes or a no, Shit-Lord?" 

 "For the love of all that's holy, just get on the ship before I drag you there myself!" Peter threatened, as he blasted in the general direction of the last couple of remaining bastards that couldn't seem to comprehend how completely and utterly screwed they were.  _Morons._

He caught sight of Gamora sprinting towards them, a mischievous smirk plastered across her dirtied face.  _She takes way too much joy in inflicting destruction._

Peter was about to return the grin, when his blood froze in his veins. 

 A thoroughly battered-looking freak with a mangled arm and pure fury smouldering in his black eyes, launching a Shatter-Grenade towards them.  _Towards Gamora._

Any reasonable sentient being would have recalled that Gamora was genetically-engineered to be able to endure almost every variety of offensive attacks and to have ludicrously fast reflexes, or would have noticed her turn her head and recognise the danger that she was in. But for some unknown reason, this only occurred to Peter once he had dropped his weapons and sprinted in his teammate's direction without a second thought. It was almost as if his body was on autopilot, pulling him him towards Gamora, willing him to reach her.  _Selflessness._

  _GrenadegoingtohitGamoramustsavehergetheroutofthewayshe'lldieIneedtosaveher_

He tackled her body to the ground just as pure chaos tore through the air around them.

 To Peter, time decelerated as he and Gamora began their descent. He saw the Shatter-Grenade split itself into hundreds upon hundreds of deadly slivers of metal, a fusillade of carnage. He witnessed these projectiles cut through the atmosphere, pelting maniacally into almost every direction.  _Cover your face,_ some animal instinct deep within him implored desperately.

 Time resumed its original speed just as they hit the ground.

 Another wave of pain flared through Peter's shoulder. This barely registered, as Peter shielded his eyes from the blinding flash of vivid light that erupted from where the Shatter-Grenade had found its home.

 A moment passed. Peter raised his head. Chunks of metal cluttered the floor around him, some even buried deep within cumbersome slabs of rock. 

  _Shatter-Grenades are such a pain in the ass_ , he thought darkly as he picked himself up off the floor.  _  
_

 That's when he noticed the ringing in his ears. At first he dismissed it, pinning the noise levels as the cause.  _Temporary trauma to the eardrums. Should clear itself up in a few moments._

But then the ringing cleared but the world still sounded muffled. Almost as though he were underwater. As he reached to heave Gamora to her feet, he felt a cold numbness seep through his limbs and his grasp around her arm laxed. 

  _The hell?_

It was when Gamora's eyes filled with pure, uninhibited terror, that Peter Jason Quill realised something was wrong. Very wrong. He glanced down and saw what was causing Gamora so much horror. 

 The hunk of metal protruding from his chest. 

* * *

 It was as if reality itself was caving in. Peter was so transfixed by the hideous sight of the debris jutting out from his body that he didn't feel himself fall. One moment he was standing, swaying on his feet, the next thing he knew his back was hitting cold gravel. Everything felt so disjointed and numb, almost as if Peter was observing what was happening through a steamy glass window. 

 It didn't hurt at first. That's what really struck Peter.  _Your body's going into shock_ , he told himself. That explained the shakes that wracked his system. 

 A blurred green shape knelt before him, taking his face in their hands. Someone was shouting at him, but their cries were muted. Now he could feel something hot welling in his chest, gnawing through his veins and bones. 

 "I'm dying," he heard someone stammer, before realising that it was him, it was his voice. His hearing had returned, hitting him like the freight trains he used to watch as a kid on Earth. The air was swelling with sounds of chaos- yells, disjointed explosions, cries of pain. But Peter couldn't find the strength to care. All he could do was stare into the stars as the life bled out of him. 

 Someone slapped him sharply across the face. He let out a yelp of surprise, the world suddenly sharpening and becoming clearer.

 "Don't you dare say that, don't you fucking say that," a female voice screamed at him, and the blurred green shape defined and he saw it was Gamora's face, twisted with sheer panic. She whipped her head up and screeched at someone Peter couldn't see, ordering them to fire up the ship and that  _theyneedtogethimtoahospitalnow._

He tried to speak, tried to tell them that he'd be fine, that they didn't need to be so hasty, that his only experience involving a hospital beforehand had been watching his mother shrivel and die in stark white sheets that weren't her own. But the words snagged in his throat, strangling him from the inside out. 

 "Don't talk you bastard," another voice snapped, "Or I will personally mess up your pretty little face."  _Rocket._

He tried to quip that technically he was a bastard, as his parents weren't married when he was conceived, but he couldn't drag the words out of his throat. Then he felt the weight on his eyelids, and the world began to dull once more. Drowsiness washed throughout his body, clouding his mind and numbing his senses. 

 "Tired," he heard himself mumble, and then the hand was back and slapping him hard across the face again, Gamora shrieking at him to wake up, _don'tyoudarefallasleeporI'llkillyoumyself._

Then something hard was reaching under his arms and legs, lifting him into the air and causing intense ripples of pain to ignite in his chest. He bit back a cry, but couldn't prevent the whimper that escaped from his throat. 

 "I am Groot." The tone of this voice was soothing. Peter opened his eyes, not realising that they'd been closed. He saw Groot's face above his, hardened with determination as he cradled his limp body in his gargantuan arms. 

 "I'm so screwed," he slurred before he could stop himself. The pain was eating away at his chest now, drilling through his ribs, piercing his heart.  _No more please no more it hurts so much oh god-_

"I am Groot."  

  _If I don't die then they'll probably murder me anyway for being such an idiot_ _,_ he thought vaguely to himself. Then he felt his head loll back as the hounding darkness engulfed his senses and swallowed him whole.

* * *

 Peter had no concept of time as he flitted in and out of awareness. It was the only thing he knew, other than the throbbing agony in his chest.

 

 At one point, he was able to cling onto this fleeting consciousness. The room spun and contorted before his eyes, and he felt nausea rise in his stomach. Screwing his eyes shut, he shook his head slightly as if to dispel the sickness boring through his veins.  

 "Don't move," a whisper gently chastised him, and he saw a woman's face inches from his. Something stirred in his lethargic mind, telling him that he knew this woman, that she was helping him. 

 "Mom," he heard himself murmur distantly, "I did it. I amounted to great things. I'm a good person." He couldn't stop himself, the words pouring sluggishly out of his mouth as if it were not his own. A choked sound emanated from the woman, and a gruff mutter of "he's delirious, doesn't know what he's saying" reached his ears.

 "I am Groot," another voice, deep and guttural and yet strangely comforting. He felt something rough and bumpy brush gently across his forehead, as if to sooth him. 

 A sudden jolt. Flames ignited in his chest once more, and he cried out. 

"Peter it's okay, you're okay, just stay with us," the female voice returned, this time panicked and urgent. Gamora. Teammate. _Friend_. The one he sacrificed himself for.

The colours before his eyes churned and swirled.

 "I'm sorry," he said dully, not quite sure who he was addressing.

 Then Peter's clasp on reality slipped and he fell back into the arms of the void. 

* * *

 

"Piece of trash shouldn't have taken the hit." 

 The voice was distant, like an echo in a tunnel. Peter sensed light attempting to hammer through his eyelids, and part of him knew how excruciating it would be to open them. 

 "He knew you could've taken it," the voice continued, "You're a genetically enhanced living green super-weapon, whereas he's just some fragile, mushy human." 

"Rocket," another voice pleaded. Tired. 

 "All I'm saying is if he'd used his freakin' brain, however tiny and decrepit it may be, we wouldn't be in this mess." A pause. "We wouldn't have a man down." 

  Silence. 

  _Open your eyes,_ Peter begged his body,  _Just do it._

His eyelids lifted just slightly. The light was so blinding it felt like it was searing through his retinas, so he screwed them shut once more with a groan.  _Too bright._

"Peter?" The grating sound of a chair being pushed back, footsteps coming towards his side. "Peter, can you hear me?" 

 "G'mora?" His tongue felt like cotton in his mouth, making word formations a challenge. Someone exhaled shakily. 

 "'Bout time you rejoined the land of the living, Quill." 

 "I am Groot."

 "It was a brave thing you did, Peter Quill. Brave, but ultimately witless." 

 "Th'nks Drax," he muttered, prising his eyelids open once more. The light was agonising, but then less so. And he could see them. His teammates, all crowded round his bed and gazing down upon him with varying expressions of relief. 

  _Bed?_ Peter craned his neck to take in the rest of his surroundings. Pristine white sheets, screens monitoring his heart rate, various IV lines pumping god knows what into his veins.

 "I'm in a hospital," he grumbled. 

 "No shit, babycakes," Rocket snorted. "You and your unparalleled decision-making skills got you landed here in this Xandarian dump. We had to race here from the opposite side of the frickin' galaxy. I've never been so stressed in my life."  _  
_

 "You very nearly perished on numerous occasions," Drax added, "And, I am sorry to say, you bled all over the furniture of your vessel so you might have to refurbish." 

 "Gives you an incentive to finally clean it," Rocket chuckled. 

 Peter looked down at the bandages swamping his chest.   

 "Look guys," he mumbled, "I'm sorry." 

 Gamora shook her head. 

 "Why did you do it?" she asked bluntly, "This wasn't like when you rescued me in space when Nebula destroyed my ship, where I would have undoubtedly died. You know I could've survived this. You know I can endure much more than a Terran, half-alien or not." 

 Either Peter's thought processes had been greatly slowed by whatever drugs they were giving him or he just genuinely didn't know the answer.

 "I didn't really think about any of that stuff," he admitted, "I just acted." 

 "Yeah well, that weren't the brightest decision you've ever made in your life," Rocket responded simply. 

 "I am Groot." 

 "So what if it was brave?!" Rocket exploded, "The jackass damn near died!" He sighed, running his paws through the fur on his head. "Look Quill, you'll never hear me say this again so cherish this moment, but I'm.... I'm glad you're okay." 

 Peter grinned up at him sleepily, "Cheers, buddy." 

 "Yeah, well, get that shit-eating grin off your face before I slap it. What exactly have they got you doped up on anyways?" 

 "No idea," Peter replied, "But it feels awesome. Everything's all..... floaty." 

 "But none of us are capable of levitation," Drax whispered to Gamora. She merely smirked.

 "Go back to sleep, Peter," she instructed, "We'll be here when you wake up." To which Rocket grumbled something along the lines of 'if I have to stay cooped up in here for another 24 fuckin' hours then I'll start shooting at nurses.'

 "But what about the terrorists?" Peter demanded sluggishly, determined to fight off the tendrils of sleep that threatened to pull him back under.

 "We got them," Gamora replied, "But don't worry about that. Just rest."

 Unable to fend off the exhaustion any longer, Peter allowed his eyes to slip closed, promising he would find out more when he next woke up. Maybe he'd even find out what their next mission would be.  

 "You guys may be maniacs," he murmured, "But I would put myself back in this freakin' hospital bed for you all a million times over if I had to." 

 And as he drifted off, Peter Jason Quill knew that the selfish asshole-for-hire was long gone, finally silenced the moment he tackled a near-indestructable ultra assassin to the ground to protect her from a blast she would've survived anyway. He might be an imbecile, he might be incapable of rational thought, but it was as solid proof as any that he lived up to the moniker of not being '100% a dick.' And that was good enough for him.

 "You're a good person, Peter," his mother used to whisper to him every night, "You're my precious little Star-Lord and you're going to amount to such great things." 

  _Look at me now, mom,_ he thought,  _I've done you proud._

Then he dropped his defences and allowed the familiar darkness swathe him once more.

 

  

   _  
_

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I am so completely shocked at the reception this got, and I'm so pleased that so many of you liked it. Honestly, going in I wasn't sure what to expect and what the reception would be. So thank you to each and every one of you that took the time to read this and leave reviews/kudos, it's definitely spurred me on to be more active in the fanfiction writing community in the future. At the moment I have some ideas for potential fics circulating in my funny little brain, including a prompt that I hope to fulfil soon, but since I had people requesting another part to Abnegation I couldn't resist turning it into a two-shot. However, this is the last part- I promise! 
> 
> The idea of this chapter is that it takes place throughout certain moments the first instalment, each segment being from the POV of a different Guardian to get their thoughts and feelings on the events that transpired. I thought that this would provide a much deeper insight into my interpretations of the characters, and also providing a variety of interesting perceptions of the same events. 
> 
> I'm sorry I didn't get around to doing this sooner, but I've been very busy for the past month, what with school starting again and added responsibilities and all sorts of drama. But anyway, enough procrastinating- here it is! Enjoy! :)

 Drax disliked silence. Always had done, and always would. Years and years (had it really been that long) of existing in a perpetual state of lusting for vengeance, complete with his more homicidal tendencies and his own instincts for self-preservation had left him loathing the rare moments when stillness filled the atmosphere around him.

 Quiet always meant waiting for something bad to happen. Helpless, awaiting the arrival of another predator. Or prey. He associated silence with the stoic air of malevolence that Ronan had about him when he slew his wife with his bare hands. Or the muteness that seized his daughter after screaming for mercy, prior to her neck being snapped like a brittle twig.

 And Drax, also known by the alias of 'The Destroyer, certainly detested the quiet even more so now that Peter Quill was unable to break it. 

 When he'd first come across the individual who lived in the masquerade that he was a devious and nifty outlaw of the galaxy  _('Star-Lord?' A peculiar title, especially for an individual who, as far as he knew, was not of royal ancestry of any race, let alone of the stars),_ he had thought him a fool. Any man had to undeniably be a fool to think he could protect a spawn of Thanos from Drax's wrath. But following their... unexpected team-up, all of their conflict, their saving of the galaxy and the subsequent camaraderie that the team-  _the Guardians-_ had formed, Drax could not refute that he had thought Peter Quill less of an idiot and more of truly gallant companion. A brother, even  _(albeit one who was significantly more vertically challenged and with a puny in comparison muscle density)._

 One thing that Drax had always admired about Peter was that he was _never quiet._ He was always making quips- peculiar ones that exasperated Drax, who apparently misunderstood their meaning _(why was Quill 'over the moon' about his new coat? Surely a simple garment without any devices providing levitation could not carry him to the door, let alone a moon)._ When the situation was dire, Quill always knew a few choice words to say and suddenly everything wouldn't seem quite as bad anymore.

 How bizarre it was that their leader was unable to assure them that everything would be okay. How strange it was to see him collapsing hard to the ground during a routine mission on Deo, shards of metal embedded in his chest wall, without a single sound of surprise or pain exiting his mouth. All their opponents had been vanquished at either their hands _(how easy it was, too. Weaklings)._ Everything was silent. Except for the sounds of Peter Quill's laboured breaths, Rocket's barked orders to _startthefreakingshiporhe'sasgoodasdead_ and Gamora's shrieks of panic. 

 Peter Quill was strong. He shouldn't be supported in a still-developing Groot's arms, pale and lifeless and eyes half-lidded as a steady stream of crimson seeped through his shirt and jacket. It wasn't right. It shouldn't happen. 

 Of course they had left Deo immediately, spurred on by the frightening sight of the blood leaking from Quill's perforated chest and the knowledge of the even more grievous damage that was wreaking his body internally. They had contacted the Nova Corps about the situation, and they would have the finest medical team awaiting their arrival once they reached Xandar. 

 But Xandar was still several hours away. That was too long, and Drax couldn't bear it. 

 Peter had been lain across a settee in the briefing headquarters of the  _Milano._ Taking him to his bedroom would have required utilising the steps and, frankly, no one was willing to take that risk. No point in harming him further. He lay still shrouded in the silence that Drax so detested, eyes fluttering behind his closed lids with occasional muted groans escaping from his throat. The largest chunk of metal that jutted out from the centre of his chest was still present, rising and falling in time with every shaky breath. Rocket had made some murmurs about attempting to extract some of the smaller slivers of cold, cold metal from his body,  _so that at least the sucker stands a chance._

 Drax barely heard this, despite the overwhelming quiet. Instead he turned away from the prone figure of his captain, muttered something about 'going to the control room to check on any potential traffic' and left without another syllable. 

 He had never liked silence. Silence has taken his wife, his child. And now it was threatening to take one of his only friends in the universe. That was something he could not handle seeing. Not ever. Not yet. 

* * *

 

 He was Groot. He is Groot. He will always be Groot.

 Three simple facts that he had always been aware of. Of course, he was aware of so much more. Much more than anyone could ever imagine. He was a creature of vast sentience, able to think, feel, dream, create, you name it. Since he wasn't able to verbalise much, Groot was more of a listener than a lecturer.

 People mistook this for him being simple. In some ways, maybe he was. But there were some aspects in which his intuition could never be paralleled. He noticed things that everyone else missed. He could honest discern between the honest and the dishonest upon one glance. Able to tell what people were feeling just by one look into their eyes. 

 So, he was one of the first to know how much Peter cared. He might have initially obscured himself behind the mask of being a Ravager, but he cared so bad. He claimed to be a criminal, but so was Groot, and he tried as often as he could to be gentle and benign. Being the accomplice to a cybernetic Halfworlder with a penchant for ballistics might have been an unusual route for a being that prided itself in its kindness, but he did so because he could read in his eyes how lonely Rocket was. Lonely and scared. How could he refuse?

 Groot cared for Peter Quill, and his new teammates. When he blanketed them in his body, knowing full well that it could result in his demise. He had done it to save them because of the compassion he felt for them.

  _We are Groot._ The most important thing he had ever said in his life, crammed with so many feelings and wishes and memories that he didn't know how to verbalise until now. Until they had shown him the way. 

 Peter Quill and his new team had given him those words, and Groot would be eternally thankful. Especially now that they've kept by his side  _(or pot)_ all throughout his second chance at life. Groot tried as hard and as often as he could to demonstrate to his team-  _his friends-_ just how grateful he was. Sprouting buds that bloomed into magnificent blossoms that brought a rare smile to Gamora's lips. Finally allowing Drax to observe his rhythmic sways to Quill's curious Terran melodies. Sharing sympathetic remarks with Rocket- who continued to be the only one who could comprehend his verbalisations- when his ally muttered darkly about the  _'stupid fricking Nova Core'_ and their ' _ungrateful fucking attitudes. Just because I shot a couple of Badoon in their empty skulls don't mean it's a crime. They're Badoon, they don't count. If anything, I was doing 'em a favour. Badoon are ugly as fuck, right Groot?'_

 

 Throughout Groot's (re)development, Peter Quill was there. Always. He would see Groot tentatively moving in time with a song whilst confined to his pot, and would turn up the music system even louder with a grin plastered across his face. He would cheer every time Groot tested his new vocal cords to success, despite the occasional pitiful squeaks that were made. And sometimes, he would just lean back lazily in his chair and talk to Groot for hours on end. He knew Groot was more of a listener than a speaker, and didn't seem to mind. Peter shared stories of all of his misadventures when he was leagued with the Ravagers, of the months upon months he spent scouring every inch of the galaxy, the songs he heard, the faces he saw, the food he ate. Occasionally, he would reminisce about Terra and the people he left behind there all those years ago. Groot noticed that whenever Peter's words focused on life before the Ravagers, his voice softened to the point where it was no more than a meagre whisper. But Groot didn't care. He sat content and happy in his pot, entranced by the intricate webs of Peter's stories and drinking in every last word that left his mouth. 

 The moment he witnessed his leader crumple to the dirt like a toppled idol, Groot wished more than ever before that he was able to master the complexities of linguistics. He wanted to shout, scream, beg him not to die. But he couldn't. So instead, Groot had gathered Peter Quill in his arms and lifted him into the air, as if the action alone would cauterise the gaping lacerations in the man's frame and return all the colour to his grey skin. 

 "I'm so screwed," Peter had mumbled, drunk on blood loss and the tendrils of unconsciousness that threatened to steal his awareness. Groot had wanted to tell Peter that he was going to be fine, to whisper meaningless words of positivity to calm his dread. But of course he couldn't. So had to make do with the few words he had been given, and place as much serenity and soothingness behind them as possible. He hoped with all of his being that the bleeding man held in his arms had got the message prior to passing out a few moments later. 

 Groot's arms were slippery with Peter's blood, but he couldn't muster the will to care. All that mattered to him was the broken Star-Lord that he cradled, with the life dripping out of him more and more with every second. 

 They'd been travelling for nearly 2 hours now. Peter was still arranged lopsidedly across the musty sofa, glazed with a thin coating of dust, that Groot had deposited him on delicately as soon as he'd been brought on the ship. He lay completely devoid of sound other than laboured breathing, face and closed eyelids smeared with a sickening sheen, mouth slightly agape. Gamora was perched on the arm of the settee directly above where Peter's head had been lain. Other than for a few occasions where she took her deadly and cybernetically-enhanced hand and ran it tenderly across his sweat drenched forehead, she remained stoic and still but ever-present. Rocket was moving but occupied, having busied himself with the task of preparing various mean-looking metallic instruments with the intention of tweezing some of the splinters of steel that had entombed themselves in Peter's shoulder, prior to throwing himself in front of the route of a shatter-grenade.

 Drax had exited the room long ago with the supposed intention of ensuring they were on course. Obviously, Groot knew that wasn't the true reason. Drax hated seeing Peter so vulnerable and prone. It wasn't because he was appalled by his weakness, it was because he wasn't used to seeing a friend and not an enemy on the receiving end of such severe pain.

 Groot wasn't so easily phased. Sure, he'd inflicted some dreadful wounds on others before but that didn't mean he was a stranger to consoling. All he had to do was think back to the early days, when Rocket had only been sentient and free from the restraints and scalpels and _pain_  he had known his entire life for a matter of weeks. If he focused hard enough, he can still hear the obscene screams that tore his Halfworlder companion from his nightmares night, and how he would grasp him to his hard wooden chest until his cries died down into pitiful whimpers. It was all he could do to help back then. And it's all he can do now. 

 A soft moan. Rocket had begun his handiwork, digging through Peter's shoulder as gingerly as one could in the situation at present. And naturally, for the first time in over an hour, their felled leader was beginning to rouse. Groot watched as Peter weakly jolted the shoulder in question, squeezing his eyes further shut to the point where it must have been agonising. The moans continued to be released from his throat. Rocket cursed under his breath.

 "Friggin' idiot's gonna tear himself a new one if he don't stop movin' soon," he hissed breathlessly, concentration brimming in his eyes. Gamora didn't say a word in response. She simply gazed wordlessly at Peter's pained face, as if she had been struck dumb by fear.  _Or maybe adoration._

 Groot knew it was down to him to act, then. He placed a reassuring arm on Peter's good shoulder, prompting his eyes to snap open. He gawked at his face, but Groot could tell that his awareness was far and few between. His eyes, although open and registering a presence, were foggy with delirium and fatigue. He wouldn't remember any of this when he awoke later.  _If he woke up._

No. Groot would not allow himself a millisecond to think that way. What the future held didn't matter in the slightest to him. All that mattered right now, the only thing in the universe that could matter, was the man before him with a hunk of metal buried in his ribcage and the hurt in his eyes.  _He had to distract him from the pain._

So Groot placed a clenched hand beside Peter's head and slowly, oh so slowly, unfurled it. Releasing the collective of little globules of light into the air. Hundreds upon hundreds of them, only this time shrunken into the size of a grain of sand. Dancing and pirouetting before Peter's glassy gaze, colliding gracefully with one another and merging before splitting once more. With these beads of light, Groot displayed to Peter Quill the gratitude for their meeting on that fateful day on Xandar, for providing him a family worth giving his life for, for all those lazy nights spent murmuring one memory after another. For all of those stories, for all their intricacies and beauty and emotions and honesty. 

  _Thank you, Peter Quill._

 Peter's struggles ceased. Those bleary eyes remained open, watching each and every tiny orb of light as it gave its dance. Completely entranced and all pain forgotten, despite Rocket continuing to rummage for splinters in his shoulder.

 Groot couldn't tell how long this went on for. For all he knew, the light dance lasted an infinity. Until Peter's control over his eyelids laxed and they gradually began to slide shut, as if the lightdrops were gently lulling him to sleep. Eventually they closed completely, and his head drooped slowly to the side. 

 Groot called his luminous droplets back into his palm, extinguishing their leaps and twirls. The light dance was over. 

 It was then that it dawned on him how mute the atmosphere around him was. Looking up, he saw Gamora staring open-mouthed at him as if words had failed her. Rocket, although otherwise preoccupied by the debris near Peter's collarbone, also had a look of surprise and relief plastered across his face. Drax had at some point returned to the room, and gazed wordlessly at Groot at the hand that once held the tiny orbs of sun. 

 No one said a word. But then again, no one needed to. Just like how no one needed to question Groot about his actions, and why he did what he did. 

 They were Groot. They are Groot. They will  _always_ be Groot.  

* * *

 

 Freakin' humies. Impulsive jackasses, the lot of them. Especially this particular impulsive jackass who couldn't seem to comprehend that a _shatter-grenade_ advancing towards them meant 'look, danger, get out of the way', not 'time to show everyone how awesome and brave I am by blowing my ass off.' _Friggin' moron._  

 Rocket couldn't think about these thoughts too often, or he'd simply get swept up in a perpetual state of annoyance, infuriation and panic. And when Rocket was panicked, he forgot how to function. Not exactly the ideal thing to happen when you're meant to be relieving a blood-pulsating shoulder of a cluster of shrapnel with a pair of tweezers, a spare knife and sheer will.  _  
_

  _I'm too sober to be doing this,_ he thought to himself bitterly as he tugged at a particularly wicked looked shard of metal that was jutting out from his subject's collarbone. No, not 'subject'. Peter. Peter's collarbone. Peter the asshole, who thought just because he was a dab hand at giving heartfelt speeches and owned a flashy leather coat was impervious to  _thousands_ of airborne lumps of metal travelling at ludicrous speeds. The asshole who was currently bleeding half to death all over his funky-smelling couch. 

 Well, that wasn't 100% true. More like 50% now. The biggest and most batshit-crazy hole in his body (other than his mouth), still partially corked up on account of the  _slab of metal_ that filled it, seemed to have stopped bleeding. Rocket hoped that was a good sign. He certainly wasn't a doctor or any of that medical crap. He was a tinkerer, simple as, so the only talent he could bring to the table was that he knew his way around a pair of tweezers and had learned through trial and error how to carefully remove unwanted bits and pieces from things. That, combined with his rough comprehension of the Terran anatomy, made him the most desirable candidate for the task of pulling all of those pieces of metal from his shoulder. 

 "Better that's taken care of earlier, so we don't have to worry as much about infection," Gamora had stated bluntly. No one bothered to protest; they all knew how right she was this time.

  _Tug._ Rocket gritted his teeth. This particular shard was stuck. Probably caught in a vein or something. The sooner he got this over with, the better. Sending a silent prayer to whatever deities or forces or whatever that might be watching over them, he inhaled deeply and then  _pulled._

 Peter didn't cry out or scream or curse his gods. He was probably too far gone, mind. Hadn't been conscious since Groot's little light show _(which was freakin' incredible. Not that he'd ever admit it to any living creature)._  But no one could miss the way his brow tightened, the way is breathing became more frantic, the way his back tensed against the couch beneath him. Gamora-  _holyshitshewasstillhere?-_ immediately placed a hand on his clammy forehead _(gross....),_ rubbing her thumb along his temple reassuringly as she whispered useless encouragements.

 "It's okay, you're okay. You're just fine. Go back to sleep." 

 Rocket couldn't help but smirk to himself.  _Just teammates my ass._

  _Thwip._ The splinter finally released its clutches on the inside of Peter's shoulder, with a sickening pop. Grimacing, Rocket dropped it into the dish that contained all the other excavated pieces and went back to inspecting the rest of the war zone of a body part. Seemed decent. Well, as decent as it would be given the circumstances. Still bloody and decrepit, but no more shrapnel in sight.  _Job well done._

"Just going to dress it," he muttered, to no one in particular. No response.  _Figures._

Rocket was beginning the laborious task of ripping up sheets of bandages with his teeth as Peter stirred. Everyone stopped breathing as Peter moaned and tossed his head woozily to the side, sluggishly peeling open his eyes.  _Don't you fuckin' dare ruin my work._

"Don't move," Gamora whispered to him as firmly as she could manage. All Peter did was gawp dumbly at her face, lethargy decorating his features.  _Fuck. He looked like a child._

"Mom," he rasped, and that's when Rocket's cybernetically altered heart froze in place, "I did it.... I amounted to great things. I'm a good person."

 Okay, now he was scared. Petrified, even. Peter was out of his mind. Infection it was then. 

 Rocket pretended not to hear the choked sob that escaped Gamora's mouth. It was the least he could do. 

 "He's delirious," Rocket offered pitifully, as if it would make a difference, "Doesn't know what he's saying."

 "I am Groot." _That's right, Groot, work your magic. Maybe give him another frickin' lightshow. Whatever. Just shut him up._

 What terrified Rocket the most was how familiar this all was to him. Waking up to find yourself staring at a cold metal ceiling, feeling like your bones were pumped full of lead and a stream of blood running down from these strange new holes in your body. The world around you a haze of colours and shapes that swirled and interlocked and danced before your eyes.  _Seeing things._ _  
_

 Hell, Rocket's first few weeks of sentience was an ongoing collection of these experiences. Only then he didn't have anyone to stroke his brow and reassure him that everything would all be okay. 

  _No._ He didn't think about Before anymore. He couldn't if he wanted to stay as sane as he was capable of being. And right now, Peter needed his help. He might be an ugly Terran jackass, but he was his.... friend. 

  _Ugh._ _He'd turned all mushy. Quill would never let him hear the end of this._

A jolt reverberated throughout the body of the _Milano._ Turbulence. Or.... 

 Rocket peered out the window to his right.  _Yes! That was the Xandar skyline._

 Peter didn't seem to understand the this sudden lurch was the signal of his salvation. Instead he threw back his head and released a pitiful wail, hands clenching into white-knuckled fists. 

 "Peter, it's okay, you're okay, just stay with us." Gamora. Begging.  _That sure as hell didn't sound like the Gamora he knew. Peter sure had done a number on her._

"I'm sorry," Peter mumbled thickly. And the scary part was, he truly sounded like he meant it. Like he thought it was going to be the last thing he ever could say to them. 

 Rocket was about to take Peter's sweaty face in his paws and beat some sense into him, that he  _wasn't_ going to die, that if he died there and then like a little bitch he was definitely going to kick him in the balls for all eternity when he met him in whatever afterlife there was. But he stopped himself, when he saw that Peter had already gone and passed out again.  _Fucking fabulous._

As the ship began it's  _too slow_ descent to Xandar's surface, no one uttered a word. There was nothing to say that was different to what they were all thinking. 

 Peter Quill might be a complete humie jackass, but he was Rocket's jackass. He was  _their_ humie jackass.

  _C'mon, Quill. Don't be a pussy. Just.... hang in there._

* * *

 There was no denying it. Gamora had gone soft. 

 If anyone a year ago had informed the cold-blooded assassin daughter of Thanos, the scourge of the galaxy, that in the near future she would be staying stoically at the bedside of a maimed and broken  _Ravager_ outlaw with a fetish for stealing things that gleamed in the starlight, she would have laughed right in their face. Before probably decapitating, to appease her adoptive father. 

  _I'm meant to be the deadliest woman in the galaxy,_ she thought bitterly to herself,  _I shouldn't be here. I'm not meant to be playing nurse at an outlaw's bedside._ But no matter how many times she attempted to fool herself into thinking otherwise, how many times she lied to herself in vain, there was no escaping the truth.  _  
_

 She loved Peter Quill. Peter Quill, the stupid idiot who had thought he could save her life 5 days ago ( _had it already been 5 days?)_ What kind of imbecile forgot that his teammate had cybernetic enhancements that provided her with peak endurance? What kind of moron thought that a suave leather jacket was enough to protect him from the biting impact of thousands of shards of deadly metal. 

 The Peter Quill kind of idiot. The special kind of idiot that made her heart turn in on itself every time he sighed in his sleep. The special kind of idiot whose sleepy smirk when he had woken up just yesterday had forced her to violently swallow back her feelings to prevent herself from clutching his face in her hands and planting a kiss on his stupid lips. The special kind of idiot that was talking to her right now about something as trivial as  _when are they going to take this thing off my thumb? It's tight as hell._

"When the holes in your chest heal enough for you to not need it to survive any longer," she snapped shortly.  _Don't talk anymore, I can't feel this way about you, I shouldn't-_

Peter frowned. "What's wrong, Gamora?" That's strange. He didn't sound angry or irritated. Simply.... hurt. 

  _I didn't mean for him to be hurt. He's had enough of that recently as it is. Too much._ Gamora sighed deeply. _  
_

 "Just.... nothing." She paused again. "Ask no questions and you'll be told no lies." 

 Silence. So silent that Gamora swore she could hear the buzz of Peter's thoughts in his head as he picked at one of the numerous IV lines plugged into his vein. What with the rest of their teammates absent for the time being (Drax had gone to give an official report to the Nova Corps about the events on Deo, Rocket had most likely gone to tinker with Peter's ship while he didn't care too much and Groot was probably arranging flowers in Peter's bedroom on board the  _Milano-_ he was nice like that), Gamora and Peter had had to became accustomed to these frequent and pregnant pauses. There was nothing Gamora had to say. And whatever Peter said was bound to make her fall in love with him even more. Peter was warmth, she was steel. They weren't compatible. She wasn't compatible with anyone. 

 "Gamora, I'm truly sorry about Deo," Peter blurted out without warning. Gamora almost leapt from her skin. 

 Well, she wasn't expecting that. 

 "What do you mean?" she probed slowly, not quite meeting his eye. Peter rubbed his hands together obsessively, to the point where she was expecting him to sand them right down to the bone. 

 "I shouldn't have thrown myself in the way," he continued softly, "I just-I just- I saw it, and I didn't think and-and-and....." he trailed off at the end. 

  _Well, that was unusual. Peter always finished what he'd started. Was he.... nervous?_

"It's fine," Gamora said as softly as she could muster. Then she allowed herself to meet his eyes. 

  _Whoosh._

  _Yes. She was done for._

Peter's eyebrow raised slightly. "Are you blushing?" 

 Gamora couldn't spit out a response. 

 "Look, I really am so sorry, I want to make it up to you," he began to babble, eyes wide with anxiety, "I was an asshole and a moron and I didn't think, I just didn't think, because I saw you there and I-I- I couldn't just let you-"

 Peter didn't finish this sentence either. And not because he'd lost his train of thought.

 Because Gamora had leant over and met his lips with hers. 

 He was warm, soft. Even having spent a few days confined to a hospital bed, he still had that unmistakable scent of leather about him. Leather and oil and grass and, for some reason, springtime on her home planet.

 After an eternity, they parted. They gazed into each others eyes, as if it would be the last chance either had to drink in one another.

 Then Peter smiled. Not his usual sly smirk, the one that was the mask of his Ravager bravado. A true smile that spread across his face like hot butter and met his eyes. Those beautiful, gorgeous,  _alive_ eyes.  _He was alive. He was run through by a spear of shrapnel and yet he's alive._

 And something bizarre happened.

 Gamora smiled too.

 How Thanos would despise to see her this way. And she loved it.

 He was warmth and leather and oil and grass and springtime on her home planet.

 She was steel and wind and power and the sun that blazed red during autumn nights on Terra (well, so Peter claimed). 

 They loved each other. He  _loved_ Gamora. 

 Springtime and autumn, together as one. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was very interested in exploring the other characters properly, rather than just Peter, and their psyches. So I felt that this story was a good way to do so. Groot was without a doubt the most challenging to write- how do you express the thoughts of someone who only ever speaks four words? Very difficultly, that's how!
> 
> Apologies for any typos or grammatical/spelling errors- I haven't had the chance to get a beta reader yet, so if you notice any mistakes please let me know and I'll fix them!  
> Once again, thank you all so much.

**Author's Note:**

> So there you have it. I'm sorry that the ending kinda sucked, but I've always been bad at endings- probably why I ended up writing so much for this one! 
> 
> Please let me know if you liked it, or if you want to give some constructive criticism- anything to make me improve my writing skills! 
> 
> Thanks for taking the time to read my silly little fanfic :)


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